


Back Against the Wall

by Gypsywriter135



Series: And All The King's men [1]
Category: Ghost - Mystery Skulls (Music Video), Mystery Skulls (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor panic attack, Unintentional Physical Abuse, but im warning anyways, it's just implied, mentions of emotional manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:24:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsywriter135/pseuds/Gypsywriter135
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance Kingsmen was a simple man. As long as you gave him a good meal, good company, and something to fix, he was content. Put a beer in his other hand, and he was happier than a slinky on an escalator.</p>
<p>He was level headed, calm, and not a bit stubborn, to the woe of his shop workers. But that was what made him so great at his job; he never gave up, not even on the seemingly most hopeless of cases.</p>
<p>He was a Kingsmen, for heaven’s sake. It was in his blood to be stubborn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back Against the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd or proof read

Lance Kingsmen was a simple man. As long as you gave him a good meal, good company, and something to fix, he was content. Put a beer in his other hand, and he was happier than a slinky on an escalator.

He was level headed, calm, and not a bit stubborn, to the woe of his shop workers. But that was what made him so great at his job; he never gave up, not even on the seemingly most hopeless of cases.

He was a Kingsmen, for heaven’s sake. It was in his blood to be stubborn.

With a grin, he took a drag from his cigar, looking at the cards in his hands. He blew out smoke from the corner of his mouth and slapped his hand down on the table, leaning back and removing the giant cancer stick, grabbing his beer.

“Read ‘em and weep, boys,” he chuckled triumphantly, wrapping his lips around the mouth of the bottle and drinking deeply.

A chorus of frustrated groans echoed around him, drowning out the pouring rain that hammered his kitchen windows. He set the bottle down, stuck the cigar back between his lips, and reached forward, dragging the pile of chips on the table closer to him.

“You’re killing us,” Richard moaned, slumping in his seat.

“Give us break, man,” James sighed, taking a drag on his own cigar. Smoke billowed up around the single hanging light in the room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lance grinned, flipping a few chips at his friends. They caught them easily, giving him a small smile as his flung an arm over the back of his chair.

“Another round then?” Dennis asked, gathering up the cards. He shuffled them easily, the fanning sound mixing with the rumbling thunder.

“Nah,” Robert replied, stretching his arms above his head. His back popped and he let out a sigh of relief. “I gotta get home or Kelly’s gonna have my ass.”

“I thought she already did,” Lance muttered with a smirk.

There was a round of snickers from the table and Robert frowned. 

“Least I got a girl,” Robert said.

“Oh, get off your high horse,” James told him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and pointed his cigar at his friend. “You’re not special just because you have a wife and a kid.”

“You don’t see Dennis bragging about his boyfriend and their white picket fence house, do you?” Richard added with a raised eyebrow, jerking his head to the man beside him. Lightening flashed outside.

“That’s only because Marcus does all the bragging for him,” Lance replied.

Dennis merely grinned, and sipped from his beer.

“How are things with ole’ Marcus?” Richard wondered. 

“As good as they’ll ever be,” Dennis told him. “Might get a promotion at work this week.”

“Good on ‘im,” Lance said, tipping his beer forward. “It’s about time.” 

There was a chorus of murmured agreement as the other men all toasted.

“And you, Lance?” James asked. “Still living like a king, I see.”

Lance smirked. “My last name ain’t Kingsmen for nothing, you know.”

A roll of eyes waved around the table. The rain began to pound harder, the growl of thunder growing. The light above the table swung gently. 

“I really should be going, though,” Robert said after finishing his drink. He set the empty bottle on the table. “Before this storm gets too bad.”

“Before your wife starts calling you every five minutes, you mean,” Richard snickered.

Lance laughed, a contagious sound, and the other men grinned. He opened his mouth to respond when a small knock sounded from his front door. 

The men all turned to look at it, curious. James glanced at his watch.

“You expecting company?” he asked, frowning.

With a matching expression, Lance shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

There was another knock, just as soft. Lance briefly wondered how he could hear it above the storm.

Instead, he stood, setting his cigar down on the ashtray, chair legs squeaking across the kitchen floor as he made his way to the door. He couldn’t see out the window beside it, rivulets of rain streaking down the glass.

He glanced once back at his friends, who were watching him with varying degrees of curiosity. He scowled and turned back, unlocking the latch and throwing the door open, fully prepared to tear into whoever thought it was a good idea to disturb him this late during a poker night.

The words died in his throat when his nephew stood before him, a soaked knapsack on his back and a suitcase in a similar condition next to him. The kid himself was drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. He had an arm raised to knock on the door again, eyes wide.

“Arthur?” Lance breathed. He ran an eye over the teen.

“Hey, Uncle Lance,” Arthur said softly. He gave a little with his hand, then quickly snatched it back to himself, gripping the wrist close to his chest. He gave a weak smile.

Lance’s eyes narrowed and he could hear chairs squeaking behind him as the other men tried to peer past him. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. His eyes slid to the wet suitcase again.

Arthur shrugged. “Just thought… I might drop by?”

“In the middle of the night during a storm?” Lightening flashed behind the boy and thunder rumbled, proving his point.

“…Yes?” The blonde’s voice was small.

Lance shook his head and took a half step backwards. “Kid, I don’t know what exactly you’re doing, but go home.” He began to close the door when Arthur’s arm whipped forward, stopping it. He looked at Lance with wide eyes.

“No, please,” Arthur begged. Lance blinked, raising an eyebrow. Arthur withdrew his hand like he’d been burned. “I… Can I stay with you for a few days?”

That was a surprise, though it certainly explained the extra baggage his nephew carried. Lance frowned. 

“Arthur, you should go home,” he said. “Your parents are probably worried.”

“Um…” Arthur replied, glancing away. “They, um… Can I at least stay the night?”

“Look, kid,” Lance scowled. He opened the door all the way, giving his friends a good look at the blond. “You’re getting too old for this running away stuff. You’re fifteen, I’m sure whatever your folks are mad about now will change in the morning.”

There was a flash of panic on Arthur’s face, but it was gone quickly. “Uncle Lance, please, just the night. I’ll be gone before morning, promise.”

Lance was about to reply when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He glanced behind him, surprised to see Dennis standing there, a warm smile on his face. His eyes, however, were serious when he looked at Lance.

“Hey, there, Arthur,” he greeted the teen.

Arthur stared sheepishly for a moment before he glanced away. “Hi, Mr. Klain.”

Dennis grinned wider. “Do you mind if I borrow your uncle for just a second?”

The blond shook his head, clutching his wrist tightly to himself.

The hand on Lance’s shoulder gripped tightly and Lance grit his teeth. He stepped to the side, allowing Arthur entry. His nephew shuffled quickly inside and stood off to the side, dripping onto the mat.

“Don’t get water on the floor,” Lance groused as Dennis steered him to the adjacent hall.

Arthur nodded his head so fast that that water sprayed all over the wall. Dennis chuckled and turned his head to the others as he and Lance exited the room.

“Yo, Richard,” he called. “Why don’t you grab this young man a towel, get him dried off a bit, huh?”

“He’s just gonna get wet again when he goes home,” Lance grumbled quietly. In the kitchen, there was the clatter of the others hurrying to get some towels.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Dennis muttered, gently shoving his friend into the other room. He turned and closed the door softly behind them, leaning with his back against it for a moment.

Lance glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “You wanna tell me what this is about?”

Dennis met his glare with a cool look, face serious in a way that Lance hadn’t seen since their younger days.

“You’re honestly going to tell me that you didn’t notice anything unusual about this?”

Lance shrugged. “No? Arthur tries to run away all the time. Always goes back after a few hours, once his parents send out a search party for ‘im.”

The look Dennis gave him was calculating. “Lance, how long does it take to walk from his house to yours?”

With a contemplative hum, Lance thought about it. “Uh, dunno. An hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Then why hasn’t his parents called yet?”

Lance paused, frowning.

“You know they would have already,” Dennis went on softly. “I love your family, but your brother is a control freak, and he treats that boy like his personal property. There’s good reason that Arthur’s tried to run away before.”

The other man was silent, thinking.

“I know a thing or two about a difficult home life,” Dennis continued. “And Arthur shares all the same signs. If you don’t believe me, take a look at that wrist that he keeps holding onto.”

Lance cursed quietly and strode for the door, ignoring the approving nod his friend gave him, and threw open the door, heading back into the front foyer. Arthur was standing where he’d left him, a towel wrapped around his shoulders.

The other man were lounging on the couch a few feet away, trying to engage the boy in conversation. Arthur answered in short, clipped phrases, obviously uncomfortable.

“Alright, you idiots,” Lance snapped. The guys all looked up at him as Dennis drifted into the room, heading to the closet to retrieve his coat. “Time to get the hell out of my house.”

Richard, Robert, and James all nodded, following Dennis to the closet. Lance stood by the back of the couch scowling at them.

Robert turned to wave as James opened the front door. “Thanks for the game, you cheater.”

“You have no proof,” Lance smirked.

“One of these days,” Robert grinned back as Richard passed him.

Lance shook his head as James followed suit. Dennis was the last one out, giving Lance a small head jerk towards Arthur, who was staring at his shoes. Lance glared in response, Dennis replied with a wide smile, and shut the door behind him as he left.

Leaving Lance alone with his sopping wet nephew. 

He waited until the headlights disappeared from his driveway and the only sound was the rain’s pitter patter on his home. He sighed, letting his shoulders slump, as he turned to Arthur.

Wide amber eyes met his and Lance frowned. He turned his back and headed to the kitchen, clearing off the table. He glanced over when Arthur remained where he was.

“You gonna stand there looking like a kicked puppy all night or are you gonna come sit down while I make you some soup?”

Relief flashed over the blonde’s face and he shuffled out of his wet shoes before squelching over and sitting gingerly in a chair, alert like his uncle would force him to leave.

Lance filed that little tidbit away for later and quickly whipped up a bowl of instant tomato soup, plopping the bowl in front of Arthur after a few minutes of tense silence. He shoved a spoon into the blonde’s trembling hand, noting how cold the digits were.

Arthur smiled softly at him. “Thanks.” He quickly dug in, eating quietly.

Lance took the seat opposite the teen, watching closely. He paid special attention to Arthur’s wrist, which he had a full view of now that Arthur was preoccupied with food.

There was a dark bruise already forming on the thin arm, and Lance narrowed his eyes. He knew that his brother was over-bearing and a bit of an authoritarian, but he had never seen him lash out like the bruise suggested.

No, his older brother used emotional manipulation, had all his life. He and Arthur’s mother had kept the poor kid on a short leash, controlling his every waking moment, trying to mold him into the perfect son, the heir that they wanted him to be.

But Arthur wasn’t that person. He was a free spirit and would rather work with his hands than his brain (though Lance wasn’t saying the kid was dumb- Arthur was one of the smartest people Lance knew at only fifteen years of age). So when, of course, the boy tried to assert himself, tried to be his own person, he was shut down.

Which was a damn shame because the kid was crazy good with mechanics. He had a hamster with a leg condition, and Arthur had, without anyone’s help, developed and created a wheeling contraption for the thing so that he could move. 

Lance had seen it personally and he was impressed. But looking at the kid now, how lost and drenched and utterly miserable he looked, he felt something tug at what he thought was a cold heart.

“So,” he said once Arthur was finished with his meal. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Arthur shifted in his seat awkwardly and then shrugged, looking anywhere but at his uncle.

“Can I stay the night?” he asked.

“Only if you tell me what this is about,” Lance countered.

“I…” Arthur began, then stopped abruptly. Lance swore that his eyes were watering, but Arthur ducked his head quickly, hunching his shoulders up around his ears. 

Lance waited as patiently as he could. Which was about sixty seconds, a new personal record, if he were honest. 

“Arthur.”

The blond remained silent.

“Well,” Lance said, standing up and heading over to the phone on the wall. “Guess I should call your folks then. They probably want to-”

“No!” 

Arthur’s panicked cry stopped him dead in his tracks and Lance counted to five before he turned around. 

The teen was half out of his chair, arm reaching out as if to stop Lance. Both of their eyes landed on the bruised wrist at the same time and Arthur’s eyes widened. He snatched his hand back, tears coming to his eyes as he practically flew to the front door. 

A feeling of dread seized Lance and he only just stopped himself from trying to grab at Arthur, make him stay.

He had to be tactful about this, so he stood where he was and, instead, called out softly.

“Arthur, wait.”

The teen froze from where he was trying to hurriedly put on his shoes. The fact that they were sopping wet was making it incredibly difficult. He turned to his uncle, a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face as tears filled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I’ll go, please, I-”

“Whoa, whoa,” Lance said. He slowly walked around the table, keeping himself as nonthreatening as possible. “Hold up there, sport.”

Arthur gulped, watching him wearily.

“Okay,” Lance breathed. “Okay. I’m not gonna call your parents, and I’m not gonna make you leave. Okay?”

Arthur stared at him, then nodded.

There. That was one thing taken care of. “Okay,” Lance repeated. “Okay.”

Silence enveloped them, the air tense. Lance cleared his throat. “Arthur. Tell me what happened.”

His heart broke when the kid’s bottom lip honest-to-god trembled. Arthur sniffled and took in a shuddering breath, dropping his shoe to the wet mat with a squish. He backed up against the wall, eyes wide.

“I… I messed up,” he stuttered quietly. “I…”

Lance counted in his head, waiting for Arthur to finish. He hit so many new records before the kid managed to speak again.

“We… there was an argument,” he whispered. “I… I yelled at them, and they… they yelled back. And I tried to leave but she wouldn’t let me and I… I hit her…” a horrified expression took over his features. “Oh, god, I hit her… I hit her, I hit her, I hit her…” 

He looked like he might cry and Lance took a few steps forward, slowly. Arthur didn’t notice until he was a few feet away, when he jumped.

“Dad… he got really angry…” Arthur gasped. “He… he was screaming at me and then… and then he told me to get out, and she pushed me and-and-and-and then I was outside and the doors were locked and the windows were locked and then she threw my suitcase outside and I didn’t know what to do or where to go and-and-and-”

He was breathing too fast, couldn’t get enough air in. With exaggerated movements, Lance hurried forward, making the kid sit down against the wall and pushing his head between his knees. He crouched next to him, one hand on his damp hair and the other on his back, rubbing in slow circles. 

Lance was shocked to find how cold Arthur’s skin was, even through his t-shirt.

Maybe he should have made him take a hot shower and get dry clothes before eating.

He cursed his stupidity and continued his ministrations. After a long moment, Arthur’s breathing became regular again, accented by a few hiccups every now and then.

When he was sure the kid was okay, Lance sat him up. Arthur let him easily. They locked eyes and Lance patted his chest gently.

“You gonna be okay, there?”

With a gulping breath, Arthur nodded.

“Good,” Lance replied. “’Cause I don’t do none of that touchy feely shit, ya’ hear?”

There was a twitch of the boy’s lips and Lance counted it as a win.

“Alright,” he said. “Good.”

He shifted to sit next to his nephew, pressing himself as close as possible, ignoring the cold wetness that seeped into his sweater. He really wanted to make the kid take a hot shower, but at the moment, Arthur looked like his limbs just wouldn’t work.

Lance had done this before. Not many times, but this was the sort of thing you didn’t just forget. Dennis…

Well, that was a story for another time.

So he sat there, watching as Arthur’s hands shook from cold and shock and fright. He remained quiet, allowing the teen to speak first, when he was ready.

“I didn’t know where else to go…” Arthur said after a while. He glanced at Lance out of the corner of his eye, judging his reaction. Lance merely raised an eyebrow. It seemed to be the correct response because Arthur continued. “I would have gone to Lewis’ but his family reunion is going on and their house is packed to the brim.”

Lance hummed, thoughtful. He had met Arthur’s best friend on occasion, had always liked the kid. He was nice, seemed to care a lot about Arthur.

Which was good. Arthur could use more folks like that boy.

Making a show of stretching out his arm before clapping Arthur on the shoulder, Lance said, “Well, you’re certainly welcome here. Didn’t know all that crap had happened or I wouldn’t have flipped out at ya’ before.”

“It’s okay,” Arthur replied, wiping his nose. “I should have…” he trailed off, lost.

“Okay, how ‘bout this,” Lance said after a pause. “You go take a long, hot shower and put on some dry clothes. I’ll make up the couch.”

After a second, Arthur nodded and Lance stood, helping the teen up. He gently pushed him in the direction of the steps and watched as Arthur trudged up them, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

“Go ahead and rifle through my drawers,” he called after him. “They might be a bit big, but we can get your other clothes tomorrow.” 

Arthur turned to nod, and then did so again when Lance added, “Towels are under the sink.”

Grumbling about the mess, Lance walked over to the hall and opened the door to the closet as he heard the water begin to run. He ran an eye over the various scrap metal that had somehow made its way inside, and brushed aside an unused vacuum, making a triumphant sound when the spare set of sheets and pillow he had revealed themselves. He gathered them up in his arms, thinking quickly before grabbing the second comforter her owned and adding it to his armful.

He walked back to the couch and threw the first sheet over the cushions, tucking it into the side and setting the pillow at one end. He then placed the second sheet and comforter on the opposite end, heading to the kitchen to grab a towel to clean up the puddles that Arthur had left behind. He ignored the half eaten bowl of chips and the poker cards still sitting on the table, vowing to clean that up in the morning.

He had more important things to worry about.

Quickly, he mopped up the mess, throwing the soaking towel over the back of the kitchen chairs to dry. He stood still, listening, and nodded once to himself when he heard the shower still going.

Without wasting another second, Lance headed to the phone on the wall, grabbing it off the hook and dialing a number he knew by heart and almost wished he didn’t. 

The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

“Lance,” a deep voice greeted.

“Tristan,” Lance replied in the same tone.

“To what do I owe… the pleasure?” Lance’s brother said and the younger of the two could hear the sneer on his face.

“What, I can’t just call over my big bro and see how the bastard’s doing?” Lance asked, twirling the phone cord around his finger and glaring at the wall.

“No.”

Short and to the point, as always.

“I actually called because I wanted to ask you about Arthur,” Lance replied.

“I _knew_ the little shit would go to you,” Tristan growled.

Lance felt his anger rise up, but he took a deep breath-one of many for the night-and spoke in a cold voice, “Yes, well, he’s still _your_ son and he’s pretty shaken up.”

“Good,” Tristan spat. “After what he did-”

“Oh, he already told me what happened,” Lance snapped back. Conversations with his brother always went this way. Tristan believed that he was never wrong, and if he was proven otherwise, then he lost his temper and pointed out all the other flaws to the other person’s argument. 

“Then you understand the gravity of the situation,” Tristan said smugly. “Good. Just send the little urchin out, let him-”

“And it seems to me,” Lance talked loudly over the other man, “that you pushed Arthur into an uncomfortable situation, he retaliated, you responded with force, and he defended himself.”

He was met with a pause of silence before Tristan exploded, as predicted. Lance could almost see the vein popping out of his brother’s forehead.

“You daft man,” Tristan yelled. “He’s a disgrace, how could you side with him? I am your brother, you owe your loyalty to me!”

“Okay,” Lance screamed into the receiver. “First of all, I owe you _nothing_. You might be my brother, but that is by blood and not choice. Secondly,” he raised his voice as Tristan began to match his volume, “that is your son! If anything, _you_ owe your loyalty to _him_!”

“-stupid imbecile-”

“And thirdly!”

“-loudmouth fruitcake-”

“Thirdly, Arthur is a talented and smart kid who any parents would be proud of!”

“-flakey prat-” 

“And if you can’t see that, won’t let him be who he is, then you don’t deserve him!”

“-psycho redneck-”

“You don’t deserve Arthur!” And with that, Lance slammed the phone down on his still furious brother. He stood there, fists shaking at his sides, when the phone let out another ring.

He didn’t even have to pick it up to know who it was. Instead, Lance grabbed the phone, flung it across the room, breaking the cord. It hit the wall and left a dent, but he didn’t care at the moment.

With an angry cry, he ripped the console from the drywall, throwing it to the ground, where it shattered, screws and numbers flinging every way.

He glared at the wall, breathing heavily. 

After a moment, he growled under his breath and walked away, into the living room to grab Arthur’s wet suitcase to drag it into the laundry room. He froze when a shadow on the steps caught his attention and slowly turned to face it.

Arthur was sitting on one of the middle steps, a t-shirt two sizes too big for him hanging off his shoulders. He had his knees drawn up and his arms around them and he was staring at Lance with wide eyes.

Neither spoke, stuck in what was seemingly a stalemate. Lance cursed himself inwardly for losing his temper, for shouting, for Arthur having obviously over-hearing everything.

He may have been a great mechanic, but don’t ever accuse Lance Kingsmen of being aware of his surroundings.

“How long have you been there?” Lance asked quietly.

Arthur shrugged. “A while.”

Lance really could kick himself.

“Did you mean it?”

Lance met his nephew’s eyes dead on, and with a serious face, told him, “Yes.”

The blonde’s throat bobbed once, but Lance was surprised to see no tears spring to his eyes. He did, however, take a shaky breath. 

And Lance wanted to tell him to stop that, buck up, _something_ to get the kid to stop looking at him with _that look_.

Instead, because he was Lance freaking Kingsmen and he just didn’t _do_ feelings, he snorted. He jerked his head at the couch. “Well? You gonna sit there all night or go to bed?”

The teen sat there for a minute, amber eyes staring at Lance, face blank, before rising to his feet and descending the rest of the steps. The older man noticed that the sweat pants he had chosen were rolled, much too long for the boy.

Lance nodded as Arthur got settled on the couch and he continued his trek to the laundry room. Once there, he dumped the contents in a laundry basket, thanking the heavens that at least those were dry, and set the luggage out to dry.

When he returned to the living room, Arthur was curled up under the blankets, eyes already dropping.

“Comfy there?” Lance smirked.

Arthur’s eyes shot open. “Yeah…”

Lance nodded and motioned to the steps. “I’m hitting the hay, too. We’ll figure this shit out in the morning, after we get some sleep and some good food.”

“Okay.”

Lance sighed and headed to the steps, flicking off the lights as he went. As he ascended the stairs, he heard a small voice call out from the darkness.

“Thanks, Uncle Lance.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he muttered in return, sure that Arthur heard him regardless.

And, Lance realized as he entered his room, stripping into his boxers and climbing into bed, he meant it.

After all, he might be Lance Kingsmen, mechanic extraordinaire, poker champion, winner of the oyster eating contest five years running, and badass uncle to boot, but Arthur was his nephew.

He was Arthur. And Lance would do anything to see the kid smile.

He flicked off the light and stared at the ceiling.

Best not tell the kid that, though.

He’d never hear the end of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Uncle Lance is becoming one of my favorite characters to write for. You can bet your asses that there'll be more of him in the upcoming future.


End file.
